


Not His Name

by Zinfandel



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Character Study, Dreaming, Gen, Introspection, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:43:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinfandel/pseuds/Zinfandel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A possible scenario for the punishment Pitch faced post movie. His nightmares are clever and turned against him they use what they know and delve into his flesh to pull from his greatest fears, the invalidation of who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not His Name

**Author's Note:**

> This was an old short piece of study into the dichotomy of Pitch as the character in the movie, as he was in the books, and my own interpretation that his personality and consciousness in the present are a completely new entity that combines fanon koz and book pitch. Pitch Black as a person is neither fearlings nor golden general but a mixture of both and through the influence of earth children and their goodness upon his ultimate evil they tempered his void dark black evilness into the stuff of children horror stories, tamed and sensible, a teacher if you will to ward them from danger through the use of fear. 
> 
> And the fearlings take advantage of this delicate new personality by invalidating his existance. He is not the general. He is not feral evil. he is nothing. and has nothing of value.

He remembers.

Alone in the darkness he remembers.

Sharp teeth nip and cut into him but the physical has become mundane. The pain is insignificant. Because he remembers.

They catch wind.

The shadows adapt and evolve. Always have. If he weren’t in torment he might be proud. Horses disintegrate, golden eyes of flame, reminders of what they once were, snuff out. They morph into a more effective weapon.

A bed.

A dark sandy cushion, luxurious and grand. Glittering in the pale barely there beams of light that creep through the cracks. Outwardly, beautiful and constantly shifting - inwardly, a prison.

Unable to escape, trapped within his mind he looks as if he is peacefully asleep, hands across his abdomen, only breaking the illusion occasionally with a fit of uncontrolled anguish, falling back into serenity.

Here he remembers.

Of a life not his own, a woman not his mate, a child not his daughter. Of a name he cannot claim and a glory that is his demise. This is not him. these are not his memories.

This man, his greatest enemy, now his...what? It isn’t him. His host? His flesh?...himself?

He does not even know when it was in the eons of his past that a sense of self emerged. When had Pitch Black become an entity? When did this become his name and not just a fact of his existence.

Did he exist? Is this anguish real? A dream. It’s all a dream. Just a harmless little dream because nightmares are his comfort and dreams are his terror.

His conscious is killing him.

His self awareness is his downfall. The memories aren’t real. The emotions tied to them are a new form of torture his shadows have thought up. It isn’t real. It cannot be.

A little girl, calling his name.

Not his name. Never his name, never his right. 


End file.
